


A Thickness of Blood

by CircusBones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Everything's happy and then I kill what you love, F/F, F/M, Family Secrets, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircusBones/pseuds/CircusBones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in a world without Robert's Rebellion, when one scheming Lioness gets what she'd always wanted and beloved families are as yet unscathed, Winter is still coming, and seasons of plenty can't last forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cersei

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No characters are mine. All belongs to George R. R. Martin, of House Tortoise, Long May He Reign & Kill Characters We Love. I make no money off of this, I simply enjoy playing "What If" with said characters, for the amusement of myself and others.
> 
> I'm always nervous the first time I post in a fandom. I dearly love the books, and enjoy the what-ifs they present, especially when it comes to Cersei and Dany. I'm not sure where this one will go/if I'll finish it (I wrote fifteen pages months ago, and they're intriguing me again), but I can tell for as pleasant as things begin, they won't stay that way. It's ASoIaF, even happy AUs are doomed!

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It was hot. Honestly, it was always hot in King's Landing, the vague stench of the city rising in the heat of a long summer, but this day, it was especially oppressive. There was word from the Maesters that winter was indeed on its way, and Cersei couldn't help but feel that summer knew this, and wasn't giving up its hold on the South without a fight. She could certainly sympathize, but it didn't make her any cooler.

“She won't be thrilled, you have to know this,” She noted around her iced nectar, a Dornish indulgence the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had quite taken to. Across the balcony to her solar, Rhaegar smiled vaguely, the King folding a lengthy letter from the North in his long, clever fingers.

“No, she will not,” He said, moving to settle in a lounge with a deep sigh. They said fire wouldn't burn a dragon, but for all the old sayings Rhaegar seemed to loathe the intense, abnormal heat as much as his bride of sixteen years. “However, Dany knows what is expected of her. And...” He hesitated, as her steady, measured husband always did when conversation wandered near this particular subject. This time, Cersei observed his jaw set, hard, “...She'll appreciate being leagues away from Viserys.” 

The Queen simply nodded, lifting her goblet to her lips once more to hide her pleased smirk. Honestly, she hadn't had to manipulate all that much to see to it that her husband's little sister and brother never wed. It might have been the Targaryen way for generations, but Rhaegar had his own reasons for being loathe of the idea. The legendary madness such inbreeding could cause had birthed the madness in his own father, the father who'd burned Elia of Dorne and her children alive. 

The Mad King. The Kinslayer King.

For all of Viserys' plotting and coaxing, Rhaegar had not budged on this: His little brother would never be wed to Daenerys. The girl had seemed quite relieved.

Cersei had her own reasons for being wary of the notion as well, though they were far too steeped in suspicion and old tales for her to admit to having them to anyone but her father, back when she'd been a nervous young bride. Viserys was an idiot, yes, a scheming, climbing second son whom she despised with little attempt to hide it. But Dany...Cersei winced, presently. She'd been courteous to the girl, always, as it made her husband who asked little of her happy. And Daenerys in turn was, Cersei had to admit, guileless and good and blessedly self-contained. But there was something in her violet eyes, something too knowing. And even as a toddler, Dany had been flicking her little hands through candle flames without a care.

They said every time a Targaryen wed, the gods flipped a coin. Cersei couldn't help but wonder if, in Dany and Viserys' case, the coin would be in favor of a child far more a dragon than any of her own children.

And thus she'd suggested some weeks ago that Dany marry a Wolf instead. The Starks were powerful allies, certainly high enough in Rhaegar's regard for his little sister. True, Cersei had somewhat hoped the heir of Winterfell would be husband to her own little Myrcella, when the princess came of age. But there was still the Stark daughter for Aemon, the heir to the Iron Throne, or perhaps even the Tyrell girl, and nothing less than a First Son would be proper for a sister of a King. 

“I think she'll like the North,” Cersei said, presently, tipping her cup in Rhaegar's direction, toward his raised brow, “Well, she's never been much further from King's Landing than Dragonstone, now has she?” To this, her husband had to nod. Cersei went on lightly, “She's a serious girl. This city has always been far too airy and frivolous for her,” It wasn't a lie. Rhaegar could see through her more reaching lies, anyway. To this he actually chuckled, nodding.

“I daresay, she'd likely find Lord Eddard's demeanor to her liking, though I don't know his boy well,” He waved a hand, silk cuffs wafting in the dismal heat, “...She knows so little of men, though, aside from her brothers and nephews. I've seen to that, true, the men at court are hardly proper companions for a girl of fourteen...”

“And I daresay, living where he does, Robb Stark likely knows little of ladies aside from his own sisters.” Cersei quipped, and her husband smiled. More and more in their years together, their wit was on par with the other. He knew her so very well by now. Cersei found she didn't much hate it, either. “We'll all take the road with her. She'll have you at her side up to the last, and Aemon will be able to eye the Stark girl, see if she's to his liking...”

“Mmm,” Rhaegar frowned thoughtfully, “You do realize, though, that binding two members of the family to the same house won't be looked on fondly by our other allies?” He asked this in a musing tone though, and Cersei nodded.

“Possibly,” She smiled, indulgent and measured, “But my love, they look on you fondly in all things. The realm has been thriving, content and fat, since almost the very day you took the Throne.”

“True,” Rhaegar agreed, without an ounce of either arrogance or over-wrought humility. There'd been a time, long ago, when it would grate on Cersei's nerves, his bone-deep goodness, his measured care. Long years of knowing he'd not been judging her had cured her of this, even as she pushed aside the annoyance, daily, that she would never be like him in this respect. “However, I'd no children of marrying age 'til these last few years,” The handsome king grinned, a warmth in his smile as he looked at her, the woman who'd given him his second chance at a family, and Cersei was all genuine affection once more, “Now they'll all be wanting a claim to this fruitful season, and first our children, then my siblings, will seem the surest route into our graces.”

Cersei had to nod to that, shrugging, “As you say...” But this, too, she could wind to their benefit. She always did.

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	2. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dany of this AU will have been through far fewer obvious hardships than the Dany of canon, though I did try to keep her of the same personality. She's been through more subtle troubles, traumatizing in their own way. And hey, we all only know our own experience.

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Her fists gathered in her new, only marginally travel-stained dress yet again, despite the many chastisements from her good-sister. Dany couldn't help herself, and the fluttering in her chest, as the house carriage drew closer and closer to Winterfell. The thin, Targaryen-red-and-black dress was of a more adult style than she'd ever worn previously, but she felt too young still to be wearing it, despite the womanhood that had come on her some months past. It was also too light for the country, which Myrcella reminded her of presently.

“Summer snows!” the young princess cried gleefully, peering out of the carriage windows, the white stuff falling on their party, “I'm glad we've gotten to see them, I've never seen snow,” Myrcella noted decidedly, pushing wayward, silver hair out of her green eyes. At her feet, little Rhaella was far too concerned with her doll to crawl up and join in her sister's view, “Is Robb Stark handsome, mother?” Myrcella asked Cersei for the thousandth time since their long trip had begun, bouncing in her seat with excitement. At this point, the Queen simply smiled indulgently. The eight year old was simply not to be calmed, “Father says Lord and Brandon Stark were handsome, in their time. Oh I'd love to know I'd be marrying a handsome man, you're so lucky Aunt!” 

'It might have been you,' Dany thought, though she didn't voice it. Sh knew she was valuable blood as well, and securing loyalty was vitally important, even in times of plenty, she -knew- this. She also knew that since her flowering and subsequent presentation at court as a woman, offers would have been coming in from all sides, and that Rhaegar wouldn't have made this choice lightly. It did not settle her nerves any further, not just now. So instead, she smiled wide at Myrcella, nodding, “I've no doubt you'll wed a splendid knight, niece,” She indulged the young girl, all poise and royal courtesy. Not even Cersei could find fault, “Perhaps the Knight of Flowers of Highgarden, or one of Lord Robert's many sons. They're all fine and ferocious soldiers...” 

'And hopefully not much like their Lord Father,' Dany added inwardly, and thought Cersei might think so as well, by the arch of a brow. Both Lord and Lady Baratheon carried on scandalously outside the marriage bed, or so court gossip would have one believe. They were a noble family though, their sons good and loyal, Dany had seen some ride at the last tourney. Still, she had not relished the thought of a Baratheon of Storm's End, no matter their disposition or good looks. Storm's End was hard, damp, unyielding. The North was hard as well of course, but it's people were also close to the earth, as she understood it, which was oddly important to the young girl. She thought perhaps her beloved big brother picked up on this. 

“Oh I shall have a knight,” Myrcella beamed, confidant yet without the vanity of her older, more worldly peers at court. She was simply a princess who knew what was due her, “Of a fine house.” She turned to her mother, “Will they be married right away, or have to wait?”

“Only a little wait, I should imagine,” Dany watched Cersei and her truly sweet grin as she replied, a motherly hand brushing back Myrcella's silvery hair, genuine and kind. 

Daenerys had never really disliked her brother's bride. Cersei made Rhaegar happy, and loved him in her way, and certainly loved their four children. And that smile...what Daenerys wouldn't have given for such a smile directed on her when she was small. Cersei was the only mother figure she'd ever had in her life, yet Cersei had never been her mother. It made sense, really, and Dany tried to remember this even when she was little. Women such as they were had so much power, and yet they didn't, not really. Dany had been a helpless babe when Queen Rhaella had died birthing her. But to Cersei, she and Viserys had been nothing but a dangerous threat until Aemon was born. The power women like them had was an illusion, kept alive by their husbands, the sons they bore. Cersei might have loved her...but then again, Cersei simply couldn't love her. And Daenerys couldn't truly fault her for that, whatever Cersei's manner.

“We're going through the gates!” Aemon called from his horse outside, causing Myrcella to lean further out the window, trying to catch a glimpse until her mother tugged her back inside. Daenerys felt her insides twist, her back going straight as a reed. 

At Aemon's side Viserys was grumbling, half talking to himself, as Dany was used to. It made her guts twist all the more, to know how much this was wearing on him, too. No, she didn't want to marry him and never had, but however would he manage without her? No one in King's Landing understood him and his voices, his ambitions and his odd humors, not as she did. Viserys would be so lonely without her to listen to him rant, much as it tired her, or his temper flared and frightened her. 

And so was the state of Daenerys Targaryen and her insides, just before she was to meet her bridegroom. She shut her eyes and prayed to the Seven that she wouldn't throw up.

The King would be dismounting first, she knew, and then her nephew Prince Aemon. Seated within, Dany made sense of her dress, wishing she could loose the almost wickedly wrought black-silver girdle clasped over her ribs, counting long, deep breaths as first her nieces left the carriage, and then her sister in law with baby Tommen in her arms, to greet Lord Stark and his children. Jamie Lannister and Viserys were out there already, she knew. She forced herself to stop fidgeting with the fine silk gown, and pulled on her new, fur-lined cloak, waiting as her brother and Eddard Stark exchanged greetings, and then she was announced.

The steps down from the carriage house seemed so many, until her feet met the soft, half-thawed mud of Winterfell's inner square. Dany's eyes were fixed firmly on her shoes as she counted those steps, Rhaegar reciting her titles. “Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targeryen, Princess of The Blood,” etc. etc. until she was steady on her feet. Lifting her wide eyes, Dany beheld a line of grey cloaks and gowns, high cheekbones, dark or auburn hair, and then...

“My Lady, Welcome,” Lord Eddard Stark was saying, motioning someone forward, and Daenerys noted distantly how much taller the Lord of Winterfell had seemed when she was four, and he was last at court, “I am honored to present my son, Robb.

Her eyes met his, as full of resignation, and then hope, and then surprise as her own, and Daenerys felt the most shy, giddy smile creep up onto her lips at the sight of his boyish, handsome face. “My Lord...” The relieved, and then equally bashful grin that cracked across the young man's lips made her heart flip.

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	3. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of the past, before more of the present.

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Cersei couldn't be more pleased, at the moment anyway. Not only had the children taken to each other, they were damn near fixated on each other from opposite ends of Winterfell's feasting hall. Robb Stark's eyes never left Dany, not as she ate, danced or laughed with her nieces, his sisters, and other ladies in waiting, and the sentiment seemed mutual. The situation had gone from Dany trying to delay the nuptials as long as she could back on the roas, to the young girl asking her brother over and over if they really had to wait until the following week to make their vows before the Heart Tree, as Starks did. 

Rhaegar and Eddard, alike as they were in their stoic moods, were quietly amused. Catelyn Stark seemed to be looking on the princess with a mother's measured, yet obvious approval (Dany -was- well built and with good hips coming in, what noble son's Lady Mother wouldn't approve?), and Cersei felt the utmost relief in her soul. It was a testament to how little ill she actually wished the girl, though she'd stubbornly maintain that it was for Rhaegar's sake that she wished Daenerys happiness. Cersei would still be glad to have her miles away from King's Landing and draped in the white and gray of the dire wolf, no longer a dragon's red and black. She even forgot her disdain for the cold and rustic nature of the North for a time, and actually enjoyed the good food and Lady Stark's polite conversation.

There was also the Stark Girl to consider, of course. Sansa was a lovely young thing herself, and Aemon, in his reserved way so like his father, seemed smitten as well. Cersei felt for her son...he'd shot up seven inches in a year, his frame not quite caught up yet. He'd be handsome and full, though, like his father and like his uncle Jamie, it was simply a matter of time. Sansa Stark seemed to be experiencing the same dilemma, far too tall for her twelve years, and for once Aemon had a suitable dancing partner, as sweetly gangly and awkward. Gods help her, Cersei couldn't help hoping the girl would be right for her son. Their children would be tall, thick with Northern muscle on Targaryen-Lannister looks, other jealous noble families be damned. Her children were of The Blood, and could have whomever they wanted. And her hair was the color of a dragon's fire...

“You're looking far, far too pleased with yourself,” A familiar voice chirped at her elbow during the welcoming feast, and Cersei had to roll her eyes, out of principle.

“Back from your whores so early?” She asked of her younger brother as Tyrion settled in with a leg of mutton at her side, taking Lady Stark's spot as she was elsewhere in the hall.

“What, and miss dear sweet Dany's engagement party?” He said the words lightly enough, but in this, at least, Cersei knew better.

“You've loathed this day,” She droned with a vague smirk, and her small brother winced.

“It is no secret,” He murmured, motioning with his haunch of meat toward where Robb Stark stood by the cooking fires with his young brothers, “Yet! Look at the lad. Everything our dear Dany deserves in this world, chiseled, handsome, full of that Stark's damnable -goodness-, all wrapped up in furs and leathers. Really, whatever could I offer her, against such a...jawline?”

“Casterly Rock,” Cersei replied, before she could check herself. She'd been in her cups, however, and was feeling less careful, as well as more amiable with just about everyone, even her loathsome imp of a brother. 'To seven hells with it anyway,' The Queen mused, 'Daenerys is to be a Wolf, her children wolves, and I, the Lioness, will stay the Mother of Dragons.' “...Truly, I am surprised that you never made the bid, brother. Jamie is Kingsguard, making you heir, Father knows this for all that he treats you harshly...” But her dwarf brother scoffed bitterly into his wine.

“Never mind your cloying lies about father's aims. Look at your sweet sister in law, and tell me what shine the Rock could have for her,” He murmured, and Cersei did look, despite herself. She knew her own beauty would begin to wain soon, between four children and nearing her middle thirties. Rhaegar still desired her, she knew, and that was all she needed, the King wanting her and only her, and heeding her counsel more and more as the years passed. 

And yet, Daenerys. Daenerys, all silver hair, violet eyes, looking as fully Targaryen as none of Cersei's children did. She was the Dragon's Daughter, and her face as Robb Stark took her hand to dance in that rough hall of stone and wood and cookfires was aglow as only a beautiful young girl getting her first taste of romance could be. Cersei shook her head, turning away and into her wine.

“She is beautiful,” Cersei allowed, “Yet that particular weapon dulls over time, and all a woman truly has in this world in the end is the children she's borne, and the wits she'll carry on into old age.” This was said stoutly, the Queen's chin lifted. Tyrion grinned in reply.

“And you think wits are what Daenerys lacks, for all her innocent charms?” He surmised, “Oh sister....you're to be quite disappointed.” 

 

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She remembered her own journey to meet her Lord Husband, many years before. Truly though, it didn't feel so very long ago to Cersei. She could easily recall her nervousness, not for the wedding or the bedding, or even over leaving Casterly Rock really. Rather, she'd been hoping fervently that it would actually happen this time. She'd nearly been betrothed to Rhaegar Targaryen previously, after all, before the Mad King had embarrassed her Lord Father.

That was when she'd been little more than ten years old, and while Cersei had been sixteen when the betrothal was finally announced before the gods, and much more cunning, her head held much higher, she couldn't help the knot in her stomach. She'd pinch herself sometimes on the journey, reminding herself that this was indeed real. They were on the road, to meet her husband, the holy oath had been made.

Jamie had been sent to escort her from the Rock, and Rhaegar couldn't have known what he was truly asking of the youngest member of his Kingsguard. The new King had thought he was doing his knight an honor, seeing his twin sister to the city to become Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. In truth, Jamie Lannister was pale and sullen the whole journey, silent, his jaw set hard under its sparse blonde fuzz. Cersei wished she could feel worse for her brother, and indeed, she did have the occasional pangs of regret, when glancing his way. It was nothing more than that, though, and Jamie knew it, which cut him all the deeper.

She would always love him, she'd told him once on the road. They were twins, they couldn't be anywhere but near each other. And maybe it would have been different, if she'd been sent off to someone else. A Tully, or a Tyrell, a Baratheon, a Stark. Fine matches, and no doubt she'd have been caught up in the excitement of marriage for a time. But she was Cersei Lannister, and Jamie knew her to the bones, told her this right back: Eventually her husband would have been too dull, or too weak, too uncouth, or too cold. And she'd find a way back to him, and she'd have given up her maidenhead already, and thus they'd finally be able to...

But no, Jamie had laughed, mirthless, pained and bitter. No, she was marrying Rhaegar, and Jamie knew this meant they'd never be the same.

Aerys Targaryen had turned his own son against him the day he burned Elia of Dorne and her little children alive, citing in his madness that the false, tainted blood must be purged from the family line. The Kinslayer King, even his most cowed subjects cried, and the church, smallfolk, and gods called for Rhaegar Targaryen as King of The Seven Kingdoms. The beginnings of a rebellion subsided as soon as Rhaegar imprisoned his own father (he would be no Kinslayer in turn, for all that his anger was fierce), and a good, measured Targaryen, still young and now without heir other than his remaining siblings, took up the Iron Throne. 

And Rhaegar had asked, in his still-grieving, serious way, that Tywin remain his Hand, and if the insult Aerys had paid him could be undone. Jamie had nearly given himself away that day, standing rigid before the throne, wanting to shout at his father to refuse. 

Because nothing less than a dragon would take Cersei away from him forever. 

She'd dreamed of Rhaegar since she was a child, and not only because he was so very handsome, clever and firm. There was all that, true, but Cersei was still Cersei. She'd come into this world indignant that her sex had robbed her of power, and only marriage to a King would compensate for the universe's mighty insult. And Rhaegar was every bit the man who'd please her. Oh he might still be grieving Elia for a time, but Cersei was beautiful, and Rhaegar had the Dragon's fire in his veins. 

All this Jamie had purged from his system to her, and Cersei had tried to cheer her twin, at first. But by the time they were nearing the gates to King's Landing, her mind was far from his selfish petulance. Why couldn't he be happy for her? They'd still be there to protect each other, wouldn't they? Cersei stubbornly pushed him from her mind, and would end up doing so for many years.   
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Sixteen year old Cersei was presented to her betrothed in the Throne Room soon after arriving, and he was as beautiful as she remembered, even with the heavy mantle of sadness on his broad shoulders. The room was still being cleaned of old scorch marks, of blackened iron cages that lords had burned alive in, of damaged dragon skulls...it was a torture chamber of a hall, where allies and his family had been murdered, being purged around him. To his credit, though, Rhaegar had smiled at her, genuine for all its sadness, and Cersei's armored heart could only remain guarded for so long. There was a sweetness, and patience in her smiles given back to him for a long time after, and it would warm her to him swiftly over the coming months.

The wedding was over-wrought, even Cersei in her youth and vanity knew that. Her Lord Father and Husband both knew that an occasion of joy was needed after the increasingly bloody, rigid reign of Aerys. Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms attended, to pay tribute to their new King and his young Queen, the smallfolk were fed by the crown's coin, and if they mightn't have loved her, at least not yet, the people sang of Cersei's beauty at least, on her journey to the Sept of Baelor. The moment Rhaegar had wrapped her in her marriage cloak and placed a crown upon her head with those large, clever hands, Cersei doubted there had ever been a happier bride.

She'd be lying, too, to say she -hadn't- been at least a little nervous about the bedding. But in all things, her new husband carried himself with a measured dignity that would at times infuriate her over their marriage. Even then, while she was a young girl infatuated, she knew Rhaegar had cultivated a mask of gentle indifference for that night. He was still newly-widowed, and though she didn't make any fuss of it (indeed, he was wonderfully mindful of her being a virgin), Cersei took selfish pleasure in how he lost himself toward the end, the dragon's fire in his eyes as he clutched her close and called his new bride's name into her long, yellow hair.

The passion only grew, if slowly. 

Still, Rhaella and her swelling belly, hard eyes, and her petulant young son worried Cersei for a time. The former Queen had harbored little love for her husband, true, and they shared a palace with a haggard woman who knew she'd not survive her next child, had likely lost her will to. Even so, a teenaged Cersei couldn't miss the looks Rhaella, with her fading beauty, scarred body, and closely-kept son sent her way, especially when Cersei held Rhaegar's gaze. Rhaella frightened her, Rhaella disapproved of her, and though she'd never admit it...Rhaella was too many things the young girl might have become herself. And who knew what her warped tongue had whispered in little Viserys' ear.

They lost Rhaella in time of course, true to her predictions, and gained another Targaryen on a stormy, turbulent night. The bitter, abused mother gone, she left behind a guileless, innocent little bundle whom Cersei forced herself to keep a distance from, pretty as she was. The babe was further threat, yes, and damn it all Rhaegar doted on her. Daenerys, with her knowing gaze even as an infant at her wet-nurse's hip, made Cersei's hands twitch at her sides.

Yet the young Queen knew her place was secure as long as she too kept a smile on the serious King's face, as long as he was reaching for her in the night. And gods save her, it wasn't long at all before she was in love with him. The day she finally gave birth to Aemon and placed him in the bewildered King's arms, Cersei knew Rhaegar was hers entirely, his siblings be damned.

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	4. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the kids will interact soon enough.

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Though often mistaken for being naive, Daenerys was far from ignorant. She was simply self-contained, and that made people assume ignorance. She did indeed know, though, what the nervous, yet heated looks her Northern betrothed sent her way meant, as well as the warm churning they stirred in her middle. She knew she ought to be pleased that the outlook for things was this good, that his family liked her, that Catelyn Stark already made Dany want to call her mother and treated her as no one, not even Rhaegar, ever had or could. That they liked each other was good, for as little as they'd been able to speak, hadn't even been alone together yet.

She was still a maid of fourteen, though, and some things Dany was just bound to be terrified of.

The morning of their fourth day at Winterfell found Daenerys curling up under her thick cloak in the Godswood, among the roots of the Heart Tree. She knew little of the Stark's gods, the old gods, and she figured it was time she learned more than just what the dusty books back in King's Landing could teach her. Even with her limited knowledge the spot was comforting, and not just because of the hot springs which lent it some amount of warmth against the alien chill. The early morning mists were winding around the trees and wafting over the pools, and if she shut her eyes, was silent, resting her hands on the white bark, her wound up nerves were eased. Dany even felt as though she could almost hear the earth's voice...

“Already praying to their trees, mm?” Viserys' voice startled her out of her meditations, Dany's eyes going wide in surprise, and then half-lidding in resignation. Her brother just chuckled, dryly amused as he approached the tree with barely contained distaste. For the unnatural color, for the sap, perhaps even for all it represented, Dany wouldn't be surprised as he wiped his hands on his surcoat, “Has your posturing pup of a betrothed overwhelmed your senses so very badly, little sister?”

“It's calm here, peaceful,” Daenerys replied, rising, pointedly ignoring his insults and wrapping her fur cloak close about her small form. She wondered if she'd ever grow accustomed to the cold. “I can scarce hear my own thoughts inside the halls...” Viserys nodded, looking away from her, seemingly unsettled now by all the trees around them, flexing his fingers in their black leather gloves.

“Mmm, and with more Lords and their parties arriving to swell the walls by the hour,” He said, “Why you couldn't have been wed back in King's Landing I still don't understand...”

“You do,” Dany drew up her deep hood, “This is the old way of The North, the bride leaves her home to be wed, and Rhaegar...”

“...Forgets himself and who he is,” Viserys snapped, looking at her sharply. Dany took a step backwards, toward the Keep, “Since when did Targaryens bow themselves to the traditions of other houses? -We- command our people, we tell them to come to -us-, we...”

“...Are Rhaegar Targaryen's younger siblings,” Daenerys interrupted him just as sharply, her weariness of him ruining her happiness here bubbling over at last, and that brought Viserys up short, blinking at her, half-bewildered. She'd always just let him go on, before. This time, however, there was a fire in her little face, and Dany knew it, squaring her narrow shoulder, “He is your King, brother, and his way has had the kingdom thriving for years, it isn't your place to question it!” She paused, swallowing, and then reached out to him, her voice softening as her nerve left her, “I only mean...guard your tongue, Viserys. It runs away from you, and even Rhaegar's ears will only be soft to it for so long.” And like that, she was his flattering, sweet little sister once more, knowing it to be far more effective. Viserys let out a high, strange laugh, shaking his head.

“Ah! My sweet bird,” He leaned forward, kissing her brow, “Chirping truths at me...go, run along for breakfast with your new mother and sisters,” He turned away, frowning, “...I need the quiet myself, I think.”

Daenerys paused for only a moment...but her bit of fire had fled for now, along with her patience for his moods. She turned and did just as he'd bid.

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Though she'd grown up with her nieces and handmaidens, Dany wasn't truly accustomed to the company of many highborn girls her age. She found that the Starks weren't at all offended by her quietness, and that was a comfort. Though well-mannered, the Northern women hadn't the pretentious, overly-guarded air her sister in law and her ilk seemed to cultivate. Mostly Dany was quiet during breakfast, answering Sansa's questions about the court down South, Arya's questions about the legenary dragon skulls, and both providing plenty of entertainment as she forced bacon and oatmeal into her knotted stomach.

“Still finding the cold unbearable, dear?” Catelyn Stark asked her quietly, a hand on her shoulder as Daenerys caught herself rubbing her hands together, and she nodded, a tentative grin on her lips. She was wearing one of her new woolen dresses and layers of under-skirts and still she shivered, though it might have been as much Viserys' fault as the cold. The Lady Stark just smiled, “It took me months to grow accustomed to it myself, and Riverrun is much further north than King's Landing.”

“You're very kind, Lady Stark,” Daenerys rubbed her hands together again, now under the table, “Rhae...His Grace, he's always said I was made to bask in the sun,” She murmured, “The heat has never troubled me, but this chill...I mean,” She cleared her throat, realizing how ungracious she might sound, “I do mean to be happy here, only...”

“The sun can shine here too, never fear,” Catelyn assured her, then looked up sharply as a call went up from the yard outside, and sighed, “More honored arrivals,” A wry smirk, over the copious amount of dogs barking and loud laughter wafting up from the courtyard, “...that'll be the Baratheons, I've no doubt.”

“Aunt Lyanna!” Arya bounded up, heedless, and her lady mother threw up her hands.

“Arya, put on your cloak...!” She cried, too late, chuckling.

“You know she'll just burrow away in the forge with Gendry anyway, it's plenty warm there,” Sansa noted primly and with polite disdain, rising far more gracefully, and Catelyn wryly grumbled in reply.

“Gods help her, yes, but she's a little girl yet, Sansa, don't be so harsh on her. You could take a lesson, from how your sister is blind in her kindnesses.” Catelyn rose as well, offering an arm to Daenerys, who was frowning thoughtfully, reciting House Baratheon to herself in her head. 

“...Gendry?”

“Gendry,” Catelyn lifted her chin, leading the girls from her solar, “You'll surely know sooner or later, Daenerys. He is one of Lord Robert's trueborn sons, whom he's raised among his legitimate children.” 

“And Lady Lyanna did not challenge this?” Dany lofted a brow, her tone curious though, not shocked, even as she knew someone like Cersei would find that an impertinent question. Again, she might have been sheltered, but she did grow up in King's Landing. She'd heard the rumors about both Lord and Lady Baratheon, yet knowing how stories evolved in the capital, as well as being around Lord Stark's very honorable family had made her question their validity. Plus raising bastards alongside one's children was another thing entirely.

“Well...” Lady Catelyn's tone was in turn measured and courteous, no doubt knowing that both Sansa and Dany were observing her closely and that she was, after all, speaking of her good-sister. “Lyanna has a trueborn son of her own in Lord Robert's halls as well...” She put on her most gracious smile then, “But now then, this is unseemly talk. What was, is passed. My children treat with all of their beloved cousins, and they do have quite a few of them...”

Catelyn Stark wasn't exaggerating. Knowing the Baratheons were numerous didn't prepare Daenerys for their reality, standing with Rhaegar and her own family before Winterfell. She was even distracted from Robb's glances, counting the tall, dark-haired heirs as they cantered into the courtyard. 

“Ned!” Robert Baratheon called cheerily and without pretense, before remembering himself, and offering honor to his King first. Rhaegar was all smiles, though, the three men clapping shoulders and accepting Lord Robert's bawdy humor in their stride. The women exchanged glances, none more amused and surprised than Cersei. To Dany, her good-sister looked positively shocked. Her husband could, in fact, be raucous in certain company. Perhaps being so far from his cares down South was good for her brother. 

“Lyanna,” Ned was saying fondly, then, as Lady Baratheon alighted from her own horse. She was indeed beautiful in a wild, dark-haired, strong-featured way, and looked to be some months on with child even as she rode. Arya Stark looked fit to be tied, barely clinging to propriety long enough to let her father and aunt break their embrace before she was on Lyanna, pestering her with greetings and her little doings at Winterfell.

“Right, the lads!” Robert boomed, swinging a hand as his sons dismounted before the King, all just as tall and broad and black-haired as he, if younger and without the expanding middle. “Aryn, Lukas, Eddard, Hern...” He called, and the boys fell in line. 'By gods,' Daenerys mused, 'Lyanna must've been very busy their first years together...' Indeed, the young men and boys were hardly more than a year apart each. Two more boys alighted nearby, and although they weren't announced, there was no doubt that the elder was all Stark, and the younger all Baratheon. 'Jon and Gendry,' Dany correctly surmised...

 

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	5. Robb, Cersei, Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit for each!

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“Have you stopped staring at her for more than five minutes?” Jon was teasing him, and Robb shook his head, grinning, looking down at his boots with a red face as Aryn slapped his back. The hall was merry and overflowing and loud, as it had been all week. And the noble guests honored him greatly with their attendance, he hoped no one doubted this. The young Lord wished most of them had just stayed at home, though, and left him to be a nervous wreck of a bridegroom in private.

“Have you had a look at her?” The heir of Winterfell asked in his defense, tossing back another mug of ale. He was unaccustomed to so much of the stuff, but dammit all, he was near a man grown, and was past due learning. His father had indulged him with only a knowing smirk, “Have you ever seen a girl so lovely? So bright and golden?” A hiccup somewhat marred his poetic rambling, and Jon guffawed.

“Oi, yes I have looked, and no she hasn't an equal, you've got me there cousin,” Jon turned toward the great doors, as a dark figure slipped within, his grey eyes brightening. “Uncle Benjen!” He waved, and the black brother waved in reply, before moving toward Lord Stark.

“...Do you still mean to go, brother?” Aryn Baratheon asked gravely, and Robb blinked in confusion, glancing between them.

“Go where?” He set down his mug, and Jon ran a hand through his black hair.

“...I mean to join the Night's Watch,” Jon murmured, quietly, and Robb felt himself sobering by the second, “I've sent ravens to Uncle Benjen, and...”

“Why?!” Robb reached for his bastard cousin, gripping his sleeve, “Your mother and her husband keep you well, you could be a knight, as Gendry means to be, make a name for yourself. I'd...I'd have wanted you at my court when I took my father's seat, cousin.”

“In gifted armor and with all knowing what I truly am?” Jon snapped, before taking a long, deep breath, “Titles mean little to me, coz. The world will still name me Bastard. Gendry will be all right with that, because his father has claimed him, his future will be more comfortable, if he wants it. But me...” Jon shook his head, looking away, “A man of the Night's Watch has no history, no title following him there...”

“Aye, and no women, no sons...” Aryn cut in, sighing, “...You know how I feel though, brother. You're tossin' away what you might be.”

“And I say I'm choosin' what I -will- be, instead of accepting what I can't change.” Jon replied stoutly, moving away from them and toward his black-clad uncle, who was deep in conversation with Lord Eddard. Robb pressed his lips together, his mug quite forgotten now.

“...We've tried, talkin' to him,” Aryn said quietly, his deep, quiet voice so at odds with his big frame, with how he sparred and fought in the training yards as fierce as a bull, “Jon's set on it. Father thinks it's a waste as well, he wants to see Jon as a knight, a lesser lord maybe. Mother, however...” The heir of House Baratheon licked his lips, before taking a long drink from his own mug, “Mother is in favor of him makin' his own choices.”

“She knows that without making his father known, Jon can only make so much of himself...” Robb mused, before looking his cousin in the eye, “Has she told him yet, or any of you?” Aryn shook his head, and Robb grumbled, “Was he so terrible to her, whoever he was, that she'd want Jon so far away...?”

“Mother may keep her secrets, but you know she loves Jon,” Aryn smirked, nudging him, “But oi, no more broodin' on my idiot brother's life choices. Your lass seems to be lookin' your way...”

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Cersei had never liked Lyanna Stark. Her brooding brothers with their near-insufferable goodness and grave nobility the Queen could handle just fine, and Catelyn Stark was courteous and conversational, if gone a bit too comfortable perhaps with the informality and roughness of the North. Lyanna was different though, with her wild dark hair that always seemed wind-swept, her free laughter, her confidence despite a rather long nose, and a flash in her grey eyes that was much too much like Cersei's own for her to ever be off her guard. 

She also knew there'd been a time when Rhaegar had considered Lyanna Stark for a bride. That had been when Elia was still alive, yes, but Elia had also never been truly healthy, and it was quite certain the beautiful Dornish princess wouldn't survive another child. Rhaegar wasn't without passion, wasn't unfeeling in these matters of marriage, but he had always put the realm first. Alas, by the time Elia was murdered, Lyanna had become a Baratheon. 

Though he'd assured her that the gods had given him the right partner in the end, Cersei could never shake the fact that she'd been the second choice, at least never while in Lyanna's vivacious, bawdy, inescapable company. Her comfort, however, was in how bemused Rhaegar looked throughout that night's feast, and nowhere near enchanted, as he'd perhaps once been in his youth. The Queen smirked to herself behind her wine goblet. Lyanna Stark must seem vulgar to him indeed, after years in her own companionship.

The Baratheons together seemed quite devoted, if in a raucous, teasing manner. After all, they had both blatantly gone outside their marriage bed early on. If rumors Cersei had heard in King's Landing were to be believed, the two argued and fought almost as loudly as they made love to each other, Storm's End always ringing with one or the other. Even now, when Lord Robert slapped the arse of a serving wench, Lyanna would toss her head and give the King a wink, which had her husband reaching for her again with a growl. Cersei near choked around her dinner at the blatant crude comedy of it all.

“Those two always do add a little something to dinner,” Catelyn was saying at her elbow, mildly, a slight smirk on her lips. Cersei dabbed her chin with her napkin.

“Indeed. Lively,” She noted dryly. At her other side, though, Rhaegar took her free hand in his with a small chuckle and kiss to her palm.

 

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She would be married tomorrow. Daenerys was still wrapping her head around that fact the next morning, watching from one of the battlements as Starks, Baratheons, and one fair-haired Targaryen Prince sparred in the courtyard below. She'd never seen Aemon so pleased to be around boys his own age, and older. Like her, he had few peers at court he could be free and careless around. Being good-naturedly hassled and having partners who weren't afraid to actually land a blow here and there was doing wonders for him, as mornings by the weirwood were proving to do wonders for her.

Dany wrapped her arms close around herself, trying to spot Robb down below, unsuccessfully. They'd barely had time to really speak, between loud dinners and entertaining new guests, but she did like being able to spot him around Winterfell, watch him if she could while people jostled for their attention. She supposed, though, with a nervous swallow, that there'd be time enough for them to actually get to know each other, after tomorrow. 

As it turned out, Dany wasn't alone in these musings. Half-turning at the sound of footsteps approaching behind her, she gasped on a laugh as a hand reached for her arm and tugged her toward an alcove under the icy eaves. “Up for a daring escape?” Robb's voice was in her ear, low and mischievous, an arm around her middle, and Dany nodded enthusiastically, heart in her throat. “Follow close, then!” Playfully he looked left, and then right, as if expecting to be waylaid by any corner, and then lead her down a narrow stair from the walls, Dany just barely able to keep from giggling.

He led her into the Godswood, deeper into the copse of trees than she'd yet been. Snow had lately fallen, and the contrast of the scattering of red weirwood leaves was striking. They paused by one of the warm springs at the far fortress wall, the two of them grinning at each other as if they'd just dodged an army, and then at the same time were looking down at their boot tips, shyly. 

“I ah, ...well, we'll be married tomorrow, and I feel like we've hardly even had a moment to speak,” Robb spoke up, glancing at her. Pushing her long, thick hair back from her face, Daenerys couldn't help but smile back. He was a handsome youth yes, but he was also so light-hearted, boyish and kind. When she was actually around him, she often forgot why she'd get so nervous when they were apart.

“That's because the only time we've had alone is when we're dancing,” The girl said, burying her hands in her sleeves again. She honestly didn't want him to know how much the cold still bothered her. He wasn't so easy to fool.

“You're right,” He paused, a nervous hesitation to his stance, and then he was reaching for her hand. Daenerys found herself thanking the gods for Sansa and all her romantic nonsense and tales, he had clearly picked up a few things, and not from his cousins. “Here now, we can dance -and- talk, and you'll keep warm.” He grinned.

“I'm warm,” Dany lied quickly, and winced when he laughed. “Alright, I'm freezing, don't tease!” He pressed his lips together dutifully, the grin still threatening, “But there's no music, -My Lord-,” She surprised herself with her own coyness, but it seemed to be putting the young Lord more and more at ease. Robb shrugged.

“Imagine the reel from last night,” He told her, pulling her into the steps. They'd spent so much time dancing that week, Dany actually found it easy to imagine, moving across the snow and fallen leaves over soft ground, “There now, aye? Even us Northerners have got to keep ourselves movin' to stay warm, and it'll only get colder. Winter's coming,” He smiled wide, and Dany bit her lip.

“I guess we'll have to keep dancing away half the long, dark Winter, then,” She replied, a half-breath before realizing how that might sound. She hoped her hair was hiding most of her red face, but couldn't help grinning when Robb had to clear his throat loudly as well. “...Your Lady Mother says the hot springs keep the family rooms quite warm.” This seemed a safe topic.

“Aye,” Her betrothed nodded, “Warmer even than the guest rooms, Father likes his cold but mother's solar is very toasty,” He grinned, “I loved it as a boy. I'd have kept playing in there for long after I grew tall, but, certain age, boy's supposed to be out in the trainin' yard, not by his mother's skirts...”

“I love your mother,” Daenerys found herself blurting out, “I mean, I just...I never knew my own mother, and by all accounts she was a bitter woman by the time I came along.” She smiled again, “I'd have wanted to stay near a mother like yours too.”

Robb just smiled, “And you could've, bein' a lass. There was The Queen in King's Landing, though...?”

“Yes...” She was quiet for a moment, as he spun her around on the edge of the pool, her long, unbound hair moving with her. “...Cersei loves my brother, and their children.” She settled on as a reply. It was courteous, but Robb Stark seemed to gather her meaning easily, nodding slowly and drawing her closer.

“As it should be,” He said, giving her another shy smile, one that made him look boyish again, “My family will be yours too, now. My mother, she will be your mother.” 

She didn't know why this moved her so sharply, but Daenerys felt a sudden, staggering tightness in her chest at this simple statement. Perhaps it was because Rhaegar had been the only person to treat her with the warmth she'd always craved, from Cersei, from Rhaella whom she'd never even known. And even then the King could only spare her so much time, between his own children and Seven Kingdoms. But then there was Winterfell, so wretchedly cold and yet filled with that same warmth, a kind mother, kind, sane siblings. What she'd always imagined a family should look like. And there was the boy she was going to marry tomorrow...

Dany's hands were suddenly gripping the edges of Robb's cloak, forehead dropping to his chest, hiding her face. Her mouth opening and closing, not sure even if her words could do her emotions justice. Her eyes slipped shut, though, as she felt his arms wrap around her, a very tentative kiss being pressed into her hair...

“My lord!” They both looked up sharply, blushing, Robb standing up straight as one of Lord Stark's men...Jory, Daenerys recalled...approached, a small smirk appearing on his lips. “Ah, pardon lad, but your father's lookin' for you.”

“More guests?” His voice was a touch higher than usual, and Dany had to look away to hide her smile in his furs as he cleared his throat. The man's face, however, went grim at that.

“If only,” Jory motioned him over, “Deserter from the Night's Watch.”

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	6. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lyanna. And yes, I do know who Jon's father is in this AU.

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When young Lord Robert Baratheon married sixteen year old Lyanna Stark, she'd lately given birth to another man's child. If the wedding had happened earlier, perhaps Jon could have been claimed by Robert and no one would have been the wiser. For sure the man loved him as much as he enjoyed his own bastards, and Jon came out looking all Stark, all his mother. For as much as Robert hated who'd ever fathered Jon without even knowing who it was, he desired Lyanna with an almost obsessive passion, and Jon looked just like Lyanna. As it was though, she'd been in the mourning period for her father and eldest brother and thus the ceremony had had to wait, and by then Jon had already made his early appearance. 

And so Jon Snow he was, no chance to be a Baratheon. It was the start of his bad luck, though honestly, for a bastard, he had to admit that his life could have been a lot worse.

His mother and her lord husband fought almost as loudly as they made love, and it was a strangely comforting thing to grow up with after the first few years. Though in the beginning of their marriage, however little he remembered it, Jon knew that the fighting had been more frequent than the making up. Robert had his fondness for fighting and pretty girls and drink, Lyanna for hunting, riding, and...well, drink. They were too alike at first, never raising hands at each other yet fighting dirty all the same. Lyanna had Jon, so Robert took in Gendry. He cursed her for taking his best game, she sent his favorite serving wench to the Silent Sisters, and so on.

But then Aryn had been born, and somehow, having someone that was entirely both of their doing had them looking at each other with fresh eyes. 

Lord Robert had been nothing but loving to Jon, much as he gave preference to his own sons. The man seemed to temper the older he got and the more tall, dark, sturdy boys there were making noise in Storm's End that looked just like him. It was a rowdy, warm, rough and tumble home to grow up in, and Jon saw his mother warm to it more and more, her affection toward Robert ever more fiery and amused, their straying from the marriage bed long-ended before he reached manhood, for all they still liked to tease each other.

It was good, Jon was happy because he'd only ever wanted his mother to be happy. But it came at a cost, and that cost often seemed to be his relationship with Lyanna. Not that a young lad wished to be at his mother's skirts forever, but he could recall still being small, and her lonely moments as a young wife when she missed Winterfell with a keen sort of pain. When she'd draw him close to her side as the sea broke outside the walls, and tell him the tales of the North, tell him of the summer snows, the weirwood, the Wall. Jon would wonder at those times, if his father had been some wayward Brother of the Night's Watch, or one of his grandfather's sworn men, if a secret, passionate and forbidden romance had led to his birth. 

But then, as he grew older, became a man grown and Lyanna drew further away from him and into her new family, Jon couldn't help entertaining far less optimistic theories.

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“Do -you- think he really saw the Others?” Jon's little cousin Bran was asking presently, as they took the road back to Winterfell from the place where the deserting Black Brother had been executed. Ahead of them Lord Stark, Uncle Benjen and Jon's mother Lyanna were riding near to each other, talking close in low voices. 

“As father said, a madman sees all kinds of things,” Robb answered from Jon's other side.

“You're not even a little worried, though?” Bran was looking directly at Jon now. “You want to join the Night's Watch when there are men saying they've seen Others?”

“Goes to show you how sure I am that he was addled by the cold,” Jon put on a smile for his cousin, and it seemed to ease the boy. At least a little. Bran had always been a touch too knowing for one so young. Jon was sure his cousin still saw the flicker of unease that wavered his voice, in a way he couldn't help. Jon was sure Bran would've asked more questions, if Jory hadn't called out from the path ahead, and the great body lying in the track.

For much of that journey, Lyanna hadn't had more than five words at a time for her trueborn son. Yet when the great, dead mother Dire Wolf and her very alive pups were found, her whole demeanor changed. The mask of merry, defiant indifference that she'd so often wear for her children faded away, and for a time there was a beautiful yearning all over her features, as she silently echoed Bran's plea to Eddard Stark to spare the pups. 

“There are five, Uncle,” Jon pointed out, helping along both his mother and hopeful Bran, “One for each of my cousins, the Dire Wolf is the sigil of your house.” Lord Stark sighed, and Jon could see the vague smirk threatening his stern face, especially as he pointedly avoided the eyes of his own siblings.

“You will raise them yourselves, you will train them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves,” He stated, grimly, but Robb and Bran knew their father well enough to know he wished them luck. Jon watched as Robb cheerily picked the pup that lapped at his hands, Bran cuddled the first he'd touched close to his chest, and his mother...

...Lyanna was lost again, her figure, great with his next sibling, slipping around the mother wolf's corpse. Her gloved hands stroked the beasts' head gently, her eyes shutting tight as she gripped its pelt. What must she be thinking, Jon wondered, bewildered and transfixed. His uncles both looked away from her sharply, as if witnessing a private moment, a private pain. Jon did not look away, as Lyanna bent and whispered something into the fur of this wild, clawing mother who'd died to bring her offspring south.

A noise brought her head up sharply, and Jon followed her gaze into the woods. A few steps, and she startled them all with a merry laugh like tinkling bells, wiping her eyes and rising from the snow-dusted ferns with a tiny white puff of fur in her arms, “Jon!” She called, giving him the smile she used to save just for him when he was a little boy, “I found yours!”

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	7. Arya, Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on the fluffy side! Things will get more plot-move-y around the point when people part ways, as in the book. Thank you so much for the lovely reception this has gotten! As far as ages go, I'm putting this somewhere between the books and the TV show.

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And when we first came here  
we were cold and we were clear  
With no colors in our skin  
'Til we let the spectrum in

Say my name  
And every color illuminates...  
\- Florence + The Machine

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“Shouldn't you be back inside, helpin' 'em get ready?” Gendry's voice drew Arya out from under her sleepy thoughts, the warmth of the smithy in the cold, breaking dawn having lulled her far away. The wolf pup in her lap stirred as she stirred, whining again for the milk skin she'd let fall slack. Arya shook her head, grinning, adjusting her new fuzzy little charge in her arms and looking to her sort-of cousin from her perch on the half-wall of the forge.

“Pfft, I'd just be in the way. Sansa's the one who should be helping a princess bathe and put on her wedding clothes. Should have seen her last night, wouldn't shut up about it even after we went to bed. Nah, leave the ladies to be ladies,” She yawned again, “Oi, and why aren't -you- off getting shaved and pretty with the rest of the boys?” Gendry just laughed, shaking his head in turn. The sound made Arya smile again, warm and deep. She'd missed him a lot since they'd last been to Storm's End. 

“Suppose I'll wash up real quick, but I don't need to look like a plucked bird today like my brothers do, just presentable,” He paused in his work, squinting at her, “Don't like your new sister, then?”

“Didn't say that,” She shrugged, pushing back her braids, “Just said she was a lady.” Gendry gave her a look, and Arya rolled her eyes, “Not like Sansa tries to be a lady, though. I don't know, she's a princess, she's proper, but she doesn't try so hard like Sansa does. Dany's all right...”

Indeed, Arya had expected a southern princess would be just like everything Sansa tried to be, and that hadn't made the little girl too keen on meeting her. She loved her sister, sure, but another older girl around who got all her courtesies right and kept her clothes straight? Who teased her for being rough and playing at knights with local common children? Arya wasn't sure how she'd handle it. But Dany was nice...quiet, but really nice. She asked Arya things, about the woods and her friends and the smallfolk. Arya, young as she was, was slowly getting the impression that Daenerys might just have a wild streak to her as well. 

“I expect living with that Queen as your only mum, you'd learn to keep you manners real quick,” She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Her own Lady Mother tried to get Arya to be a proper lady, but Catelyn Stark was also warm and kind and strong and understood her, even when she was angry with her. Arya didn't think the Queen gave off much warmth.

“Watch your tongue there, wolf girl,” Gendry scolded lightly, “S'the Queen you're talkin' about, and the castle's fair crowded with ears.”

“Ugh, I'm eleven, I get to say things...” Arya glanced up to the sky, presently, as Nymeria wriggled contentedly in her lap. The light was brighter, gold streaking the clouds. It was getting noisier in Winterfell's courtyards, and girlish laughter filtered down from the windows above. Arya found herself trying to put herself in Dany's place, trying to think of how nervous she must be. But while her new sister was only a few years older then her, the gap of womanhood and the knowledge that came with it was between them. Also, Arya couldn't imagine someone not wanting to be in Robb's company all the time. She knew she was biased there, though, all her brothers were wonderful.

“...Who even wants to come and sit through a boring ceremony, if they're not the ones getting married or doing the marrying? If I ever get married, Gendry, I better not get all this fuss. It's stupid.”

“Course you won't, you're marryin' me, remember?” Gendry asked, wryly, moving the length of steel he'd been heating out of the forge, “They don't throw parties this big when a bastard knight gets married.”

“Like I'd still marry you, y'smell like ash and horses,” Arya grinned, looking back down at him. It had been a joke since they were little. At three years old, Arya had first surveyed her line of cousins at Storm's End and, confused thanks to Sansa's silly stories about betrothals on the road, and thus thinking husbands were being chosen for them already, had marched up to Gendry and said 'I pick this one', taken his hand, and gone off to play in the stables. 

“Don't see the smell puttin' you off yet, m'Lady,” He went on joking, starting in on hammering out the steel. He had gotten taller in the two years since she'd seen him last. The forge he loved so much was to thank for arms and shoulders that made him look like a man grown, too. The thought suddenly occurred to Arya that, funny as it was -now-, Gendry -wasn't- her cousin by blood. Which meant maybe folk wouldn't always think it a joke from when they were small, and...well, that made something weird turn around in her tummy.

“...I better go wash up, mother will be looking for me. And don't call me a lady!” She darted up, wrapping both arms around Nymeria. Gendry gave her a smile, reaching over and ruffling her wolf cub's fur. Nymeria gave his hand a lick. Arya couldn't help but smile again.

“See you, wolf girl.”

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There'd been no maiden's cloak for Rhaella Targaryen. Wedded to her brother, she wore black and red throughout the ceremony, gown and cloak, as countless Targaryen brides before her had done. The very old, much-mended and re-embroidered cloak would finally serve its proper purpose today, when it was set on Daenerys' small shoulders only to eventually be replaced with the cloak of House Stark. She brushed a hand over it presently, as it lay across her bed in her guest chambers. The red and black dragons would stand out sharply against the white and gray dress Sansa was helping her lace up.

“It's so beautiful,” The slightly younger girl murmured yet again. Dany did have to agree. The white silk, embroidered with gray buds, leaves and vines had been made back in King's Landing for her wedding day. She'd not dress so fine in the North again, perhaps. With a faint smile, the girl mused on how she didn't much mind that fact. The thick wools and cottons and furs were growing on her.

“It is, but I think I might lose myself in Stark colors,” She laughed, meaning it very literally as she looked at herself in the polished looking-glass across the room. Between her silvery hair, now braided back from her temples in the Northern style, her pale skin and the pale dress, she looked like some kind of strange, flowing blur of white, silver and gray. Sansa, however, just gave her a long sigh.

“No, you look like snow,” She smiled, shyly, “Like some good winter maiden from the tales, or...” The girl trailed off, giggling, “That sounds silly, but really, you do look beautiful!”

“Thank you, sister.” Dany's throat suddenly closed up. She turned to let her lady's maid settle the old, blood-red and jet-black Targaryen cloak on her shoulders, studying the new effect in the mirror. Yes, it did ground her, hold her to the floor, frame her pale figure. Biting her lip, she did wonder if, in trading the dragons on her back for a dire wolf, she'd float away.

But no, she quickly thought, watching Sansa's pup scamper after the girl's ankles and skirts, Robb's wide grin flashing in her memory. No, her colors weren't being washed out. She was trading them, nothing more. They'd only be washed out if she wanted them to be. Daenerys would always be a Dragon, like Rhaegar, like her mother. She'd simply become a wolf as well as a dragon. 

“It's time!” Myrcella called, hopping into the room gleefully. In the doorway, both Cersei and Catelyn stood. The latter certainly looked on her with greater, brimming warmth. But Cersei too, for the very first time in the girls' memory, was looking on Daenerys with what the young girl could only describe as pride, her eyes going from the toes of her brown boots (fit for the godswood), to the crown of her silver head, smiling softly. 

Perhaps it was relief. Dany knew the threat she was to Cersei, as a true Dragon. But there was a hint of something else, too. Maybe it wasn't a mother's affection, like what she saw in Lady Stark's eyes. But it was approval. It -was-. Maybe it was just another woman remembering what it was like to be young and betrothed, and facing it with grace, and being proud that Daenerys was doing the same. She couldn't know that Cersei was privately moved by the fact that the pretty baby she'd kept her distance from, had grown up to be so very self-possessed and brave and beautiful, all on her own. But of course, the fact that Dany was no longer a threat to her allowed her to feel these things.

“Let's walk to the godswood,” Catelyn spoke gently, extending her hand. Behind her Ayra's freshly-scrubbed face popped up, beaming. Dany did not hesitate, stepping forward and clasping hands with Lady Stark. With Sansa practically skipping behind her, Daenerys squared her shoulders and allowed herself to be pulled forward, wolf cubs stumbling and yipping around her, Cersei stately and proud just behind her, as she started the procession down through the smoky halls and toward the weirwood. 

 

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	8. Robb, Sansa, Jamie, Danaerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive!
> 
> You might notice that certain important wedding gifts from the book canon are missing. Never fear, they'll show up next chapter ;)

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Robb's hands were shaking. He could hardly blame the cold either, as it was warm for the time of year, and his Northern blood was thick. His furs almost stifled him, in fact. It was all Daenerys, kneeling at his side before the Heart Tree and the Septon giving his blessing before them, that had him all at odds. When she'd entered the Godswood all in gray and white, red and black, his breath had left him and his eyes couldn't stay long away from her face.

His bride wasn't that much older than Sansa, really, only a year or two. There was a sadness about her odd-colored eyes though, and a determined set to her shoulders that made -him- feel like the younger of the pair just then. He knew, now, why that was. For all the comforts of the South she'd known, of being a princess of the blood, Daenerys Targaryen hadn't felt the kind of family warmth Robb had grown up with, not until coming to Winterfell. She'd had little time or chance to be merry, as he had, and so had grown up serious and self-possessed at an early age.

Daenerys was smiling now though, softly, glancing shyly his way every time she felt him staring at her. This pretty, high-born girl wanted to be here, wanted his family, wanted to be his wife. If that didn't make a sixteen year old lad shake in his boots, he was probably dead. Or so Robb assured himself. 

It was a Northern wedding, and yet there were Southern niceties to observe, mostly for the sake of the rest of the kingdom and other noble houses. Robb's father had told him that the Targaryen's relationship with the Seven was mainly a formality, and that, along with House Stark's ancient ties to the Old Gods, their joining would make for a unique ceremony. 

After the Septon was done with his sermon, Dany stood, and dutifully Robb replaced her maiden's cloak with the colors of House Stark. He felt the tensing of her muscles under his hands, the sinew and flesh moving, and knew to squeeze her shoulders gently, impulse driving him to kiss her cheek. Her eyes were wide looking at him, and he gave her an easy grin back. 

“I'm a wolf,” He murmured in her ear, as folk around them cheered, his voice shaking with giddy nerves only slightly, “M'not asking you to stop being a dragon, though...” The smile she gave him as he drew back told him he'd said exactly the right thing. Again. Twice in the same week. Maybe he wouldn't be a dunce at this whole husband business after all...

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The wedding feast was sublime, at least in Sansa's opinion. Bouncing on her heels, she indulged in the music, the feasting, the ethereal vision her new good-sister made whole-heartedly. She watched, as the two of them made their way around the hall, Daenerys Targaryen and Robb Stark. They were sweet to each other, yet shy, all grey, white and gold, and it made the young girl smile, hoping they'd find happiness this night. Dany wasn't that much older than Sansa, wasn't that much further down the road to womanhood. All had seemed to turn out well for Dany. Sansa could only hope the same for herself one day, all this ceremony for her...likely in King's Landing, even...

“Amon not up for a dance?” A voice asked at her elbow, outside of the cooking fires and the reel of music. Sansa smiled courteously to the Knight, shrugging a shoulder as she did, utterly unaware of how appealing she looked in the firelight.

“He took the flat of a training sword hard in the leg, Ser, her Grace would not have him dancing,” Sansa grinned, and beheld Amon's uncle laughing, shaking his head.

“Cersei is indeed very protective. But here now!” Ser Jamie said gallantly, taking her hand, and Sansa blushed a deeper red, “It's not right that his lady should be idle! Have a turn with me, Lady Stark!”

She snorted at the title, not yet nearly earned. But Sansa thrust up her chin, smiling back and squaring her shoulders. She was almost of a height with the Queen's brother, perhaps that lent her confidence as well, “I'd be honored, Ser!” Sansa told him with equal fervor, and Jamie Lannister smiled wide, spinning her into the fray.

 

Gods, but she was a pretty thing.

For sure, and Jamie knew that Cersei had designs on the Stark girl. Maybe that was why he'd taken the young girl's hand to dance, he'd never claimed to act on anything deeper than impulse. They were innocent enough aims, anyway, wondering at Cersei's game, finding Sansa Stark to be a sweet, if simple bit of a lass. Truth be told, though, as they danced and she prattled away, thinking him only a thoughtful uncle and Kingsguard, the more Sansa reminded Jamie of Cersei herself, as a girl.

Back when she'd been free with her opinions, her relative innocence, her indulgence in music and tales. Jamie couldn't help smiling true, as he turned her about between reels. Her prattling chatter was familiar, somewhat sweet, even, reminding him of that other young girl who'd dreamed of a king, of presiding over tourneys, so long ago...only, without Cersei's venomous thirst for power...

It was only just starting to seem unusual, how many dances he'd taken her for, when the bawdy cheers and leers started up, signaling the married couple's heading toward the inner chambers of Winterfell. Sansa only halfway leaped in, though she did laugh heartily, joining in long enough to tug off her brother's boots. Jamie found it adorable how she didn't go any further, leaving that to her bawdy Aunt Lyanna, and other ladies. As for he and Tyrion, well, they helped Robb Stark's rowdy cousins make sure Dany's wedding clothes weren't ever fit to be worn in public again.

Ah, for all her youth, though, Jamie couldn't help but be proud for how little Dany held on to her dignity, even giving those in the hall a little curtsey and a blushing smile in her linens, before she slipped into their chambers. Jamie laughed, watching Robb Stark, far redder and more bare, following her. The Stark boy had clearly never darkened a whorehouse door, and Dany was a maid yet, but he'd seen the little princess sneak off with certain tomes from Maester Pycelle, back in King's Landing. Robb Stark was in for a tumble.

Oh, marriage rites...Jamie glanced to where Cersei still sat at the high table, arms linked with the King, both looking quite content, their son escorting both the Stark lasses and their mother to their chambers, already a little Knight. 

He cringed, old sour tastes rising in his mouth, and suddenly found himself in need of someone to grouse the rest of the evening away with...Tyrion seemed a likely companion.

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She whirled into the bedroom, still laughing, holding up the shreds of her undergarments with both hands. Turning, though, Daenerys beheld her new husband looking on her with anxious eyes, licking his lips, his eyes flickering between her hands, her exposed legs, and her face. Dany found herself a little dry-mouthed herself then, biting her lip as she looked at him, his muscled torso and arms, the trail of fuzz at his navel, that was a somewhat lighter auburn than the hair on his head. She shivered as she followed it...here now, they hadn't even kissed properly yet, and they were expected to...

She took a step closer, her face warming as she eyed his state of undress. With a deep breath, Dany paused, drawing her hands away and letting the remains of her undergarments fall around her ankles, glancing up at him. Robb swallowed, hard, gaze glued to her figure even as he groaned, reaching for her. “Dany...” He gulped, fingers brushing her sides, eyes on her chest, her neck, and then her face. “You look...but no, no, even before now, in the Godswood, you were so beautiful...” 

“Thank you...” She winced immediately, and he sputtered on a laugh, and, well, that was nice...Dany found herself reaching up, tugging him down for a kiss before she lost her nerve, feeling his lips curve around hers. Robb's arms wound 'round her waist, pulling her closer, skin meeting skin. He kissed her back with a vigor, a little awkward perhaps, but then so was she, and they were laughing again, noses bumping into each other. And then their eyes met, his so merry and eager and it turned something eager in her own belly...

She hadn't expected this. She'd expected duty, yes. Fondness, for sure, they'd liked each other from first sight, after all. But this, this burning, this churning in her insides, the heat between her legs when his eyes half-lidded...that was unexpected, for being so soon. Robb tugged her to him again, his kiss hot and insistent this time, moving them toward the bed, “If...if you don't...don't feel right,” He stammered, between kisses, the back of her knees bumping the bed, “You'll tell me?” Oh, how he looked young then, blinking at her. Dany smiled back, shakily, as she sat down on the furs and covers.

“I will....though, it might, er, be best, if...” She blushed, “I mean, if we hurry and get the...the hard parts done first, then we can...enjoy the next time more.” He blinked, jaw going slack, and Dany took this to mean that he didn't understand her, and hurried on, “It's only that, I know men can finish quickly the first time, and for a maiden that it can be painful, so, reason stands that, getting those two done first, the sooner we can....have...pleasure, with each other,” She cleared her throat, chancing a look up to him. Robb shook his head, a grin moving over his lips, perplexing her.

“No, it's...I mean, I know all that!” He was quick to assure her, biting his lip around his grin, his eyes looking so very pleased as he reached out, touching her silver hair, “...My father told me such things. But he also said...well, that most high-born lasses, they'd not know...my mother hadn't known, nor had he, they'd had to learn, together...”

“Well...” She whispered, taking his hand, shyly, “...All the better for us, yes?” She licked her lips, and her husband groaned, dipping down to catch her in another kiss, his free hand going to his breast this time. 

Yes, it was all she'd hoped, that night. A touch awkward, for sure, and a bit of pain, a quickly spilled seed. But then, oh, then! How he kissed her, murmured his adoration into her skin, touched her, tasted her. There was much they still had to learn of each other. But now, wed, they'd hours and hours to complete each others' knowledge. In the dark, close to her Lord's side, Daenerys knew that she'd not be disappointed. 

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	9. Viserys, Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Viserys...There's some delicious, cliff-hanger-y conflict coming very shortly, fear not!

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More and more, Viserys was wishing he'd just stayed in King's Landing.

A curiosity he couldn't ignore had prompted him to come. For sure, there might have been some amount of scandal and family guilt to deal with had he remained at home, not subjecting himself to seeing Daenerys wed. He would not have let it effect him though, of course. No, the only reason Viserys had come along has been that he had never seen the North, and wanted to. 

Well, now he'd seen it. It wasn't much, by his estimation, cold and uncomfortably vast. His interest gone, he was left suffering through the company of insipid nobles and Dany's now dazzling, love-struck smiles.

“Folk are beginning to notice your sulking, Prince,” Tyrion Lannister noted, taking a seat at his side before the breakfast table. It was the morning after the nuptials, and the families were breaking their fast all together. It was also Aemon's name day, and while the actual celebrations and festival would wait until the return to King's Landing, there would still be some gifts for the heir this morning, as well as the bride and groom. Viserys cited all this with his gaze, sending it to the Imp with a lofted brow. Tyrion just smiled that insufferable smirk.

“At least I am plain with my displeasure,” Viserys replied, smirking right back, unpleasantly. “You wanted her just as much as I did, good-brother, do not deny it.”

“I believe I lack your greatly inflated sense of entitlement to her though which, along with a good drink...” At this, Tyrion reached for his dark beer, lofting it high, “Makes for an almost enjoyable melancholy!”

“I'm a dragon, Imp,” Viserys reminded him sharply, smile widening without mirth, imagining a world where he might haul back and strike the smug expression from the Lannister's face. “Nothing is inflated.” Tyrion only let out a deep sigh.

“Time and again I think I've found an equal in wit, and every time I am disappointed, Viserys.” 

His hand twitched near his dagger. But the room was filling with Starks and Lannisters and Targaryens, and Viserys wisely tempered himself. Tyrion delighted in goading him, this was nothing new, but on this morning, well, perhaps he'd do well to school his own face. 

Lord Eddard and Rhaegar spoke close and companionably together, both serious, somewhat dour fellows that they were. Viserys caught snippets of their conversation as he sat not too very far away, talk of Brandon Stark, as ever. Rhaegar had a weight on him always, over how their father had burnt so many of his Lords alive. Viserys found it unseemly. Yes, Aerys had been mad, he couldn't deny that. He'd made terribly unhinged decisions, and he'd...he'd hurt their mother. Sometimes, Viserys could still remember Rhaella weeping, the bruises on her arms as he hugged her...

But Aerys' kingship, his dragon blood, should have dismissed him from such...such apologetic grimness from his eldest son. Viserys had much he could never forgive his father for, memories of Rhaella's hands stroking his hair back as a boy, her tears wetting his face strong in his mind. But he also resented Rhaegar for locking Aerys away in the dungeons like a common thief. No righteous, fiery death for the dragon, all because Rhaegar would not be called Kinslayer. Dragons weren't supposed to fear the gods...

Viserys was drawn out of his musings by the arrival of the noble ladies, of Cersei taking her place at his older brother's side, and Aemon drawing out a bench for Sansa Stark. For a moment, his pale violet eyes narrowed on the pair. Noble children both, paired up all neat and innocent, neither having yet felt the sting life might offer them. Aemon was indulged, yet not spoilt, and Sansa was all a sweet, pure little lady. Viserys smirked to himself, mirthlessly, wondering how life might have gone differently, had he gone with the urge to smother his nephew in the cradle...

Daenerys and Robb Stark finally made their appearance, only a little late, but enough to have cousins and siblings jesting and whooping as they moved between the tables. Robb's bashful, yet wide grin, and Dany's little blush, the way she turned toward her husband to hide her girlish smile against his shoulder...Viserys swallowed hard, gripping his mug of beer harder. Of course it had gone well. They were both beautiful and damnably good. Of course they liked each other. Of course he'd lost her, utterly...

...He and Jamie Lannister glanced at each other at the same time. Oh fucking gods, to have a pain shared with -that- brainless jesting oaf...

They took their seats, and serving girls started dishing out breakfast, a welcomed distraction. Rhaegar was rising, though, everyone pausing and looking to The King. “Many gifts will be given over the course of this meal,” He spoke, measured and controlled, as ever. It was a timbre that strangely got on Viserys' nerves. “My Queen and I thought we'd give ours first, as we'll no doubt be outshone before long.” Laughs, and a kind, indulgent smirk from Cersei. As if she'd ever give Dany a thing without being pressed.

Cheers and much shoulder-slapping followed the first gift, though, and Viserys sighed. It was the cradle, the one his little sister had rested in. He and Rhaegar had slept in a different one, more masculine perhaps. Daenerys' had been carved with dragons just the same, and lined with red satin slashed with black no less. He beheld the emotion the gift stirred in his sister, running her hands over the dragons, flowers and butterflies, smiling broadly and rising to embrace Rhaegar, as she had since she was a little girl. Even Cersei got an embrace, and didn't seem to mind it much.

“The second, ah, it is for both you and my son,” Rhaegar went on, once Dany had returned to her seat. Viserys frowned, glancing to Aemon, who looked just as perplexed, but eager. Rhaegar made a motion, and two of their servants moved from the corner carrying a heavy, ornate chest between them. They set it down beside the King, and Rhaegar opened it reverently. A flash of uncertainty moved over Cersei's face, then, though she maintained her smile. Viserys did not miss it.

“Of the last dragon eggs laid by the last living dragons, only three remain in tact,” Rhaegar said, rising, holding two beautifully colored, scaly stones, one in each hand. No, not stones...dragon eggs. There was a collective intake of breath, Viserys included. 

The King smiled, “Time has turned them to stone, but they remain beautiful, and priceless, and the singular treasures of our House,” He approached his sister, setting the black egg in her hand, and then went to his son, giving him the red, “The Dragon has three heads, and I hold the third, back in King's Landing,” He spoke, gently, even as Viserys felt his own blood grow cold, “No matter how far apart we are, my little sister, my beloved son...we are the dragon.” Dany's eyes swam, as she looked up to her big brother, and Aemon stared at his egg in undiluted awe, “Keep this with you, my little Dany, and you shall be warmed even in the North.”

Dany's heartfelt thanks were drowned out by the sound of Viserys' chair toppling over, his feet carrying him swiftly from the room.

 

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She felt as if she should feel worse. But she didn't, and Daenerys fought the old, ingrained, guilty urge to apologize to the air for whatever she'd done to upset Viserys. It had been such a beautiful morning, too...she'd woken to her new husband's kisses, to making love in the cool, cold light of Winterfell's morning. She'd never much thought of the act 'til now, as anything other than a means to an heir that could, if done right, be far more enjoyable than cold duty, if a maiden knew certain things. With Robb, though, it was like a flame, all through her. Love could come from this fondness, this comfort with each other, she was sure of it. There was passion. She was aware enough to know that passion and attraction weren't the same as love, but...they sure helped a lot of folks get there. Cersei and Rhaegar loved each other, a love built on the passion and fondness they'd felt first...

Rhaegar! At breakfast he'd been sweet to her, as he hadn't been in long years, not since she'd been little and at his heels in the Red Keep. He'd held her close, given her gifts of their house. How she found herself imagining a little auburn-haired, violet-eyed child nestled in the red silk of the Targaryen cradle, the same she'd slept in. When he'd placed the egg in her hands, however, a different sort of stirring had moved in her chest. Electricity moved under her fingertips, and looking to Aemon, she saw that her nephew felt something similar. Yes, they were the Dragon, the three of them. The thread moved between them, a vein of the Blood shared, as yet unsullied by madness...

Then Viserys had stormed out, making a scene as he so often did. Dany had looked away as Rhaegar made his apologies for his brother to their hosts, as they were always doing, it seemed. A pang of guilt pierced her chest, though, over the relief she felt. She'd never have to make apologies for his rudeness and impropriety again, it was more than likely. 

He wasn't the Dragon, though. Daenerys had known it for a long time, even if the dragons no longer flew above them. Rhaegar was a dragon. Rhaella had been a dragon, at least in her best, hopeful imaginings. Aemon would be a dragon someday. And if her big brother thought Dany was...well. She wouldn't argue, she would only try to live up to that. She would also try to put Viserys from her mind. As it was, though, she wasn't very good at hiding things.

“You're troubled,” Robb noted after breakfast, the two of them having moved to her new solar. It was warm, heated, as Catelyn Stark's chambers were, by the hot springs. It was clear that her husband liked it, and would often be in her company there. Dany didn't mind. She smiled, shrugging a shoulder as he moved to wrap eager arms around her, “Is it your brother?”

“...Yes,” Dany thought of lying for all of five seconds. She was married to this lad, and he seemed eager to know her. She'd always responded easily to people who truly wanted to hear what she had to say, to know what she was feeling. There'd been so few of them in King's Landing. “I just. I would not have him hurt, and yet...” She sighed, shaking her head, “...He's always wanted far more than is due him. A second son to a king with sons.”

“The eggs?” Robb frowned, glancing to where she'd set hers over the vast hearth in her chambers. Dany nodded, smiling a little at his confusion. Of course he saw only a pretty stone...much, perhaps, as she looked at the dire wolf curled up by the fire as only a wee pup. She'd have to remedy that, too.

“It's more than the eggs, it is what they symbolize.” She explained, leaving his arms and moving to the black egg, Grey Wind sitting up and wagging his little tail. Daenerys took the egg in her hands, sighing, “...Our sigil has three heads.”

“For the three Targaryens who conquered Westeros, I know my lessons,” Robb grinned behind her, and Dany turned, returning the smile.

“Yes, but...well,” She shrugged, “The dragons faded over time. Grew smaller, lesser....” She blinked at him, feeling a sting in her eyes. The pain of it, the reality of her House's deterioration, was real to her. She'd seen it, been told of it, been told of the madness of her father, how he'd murdered Rhaegar's first family. The shadow of it loomed in Viserys, and though he didn't see it, Dany and Rhaegar did and it was like a thorn in their hearts, ever digging deeper as they didn't address it. “The Dragon has Three Heads. Three who still hold The Blood. For The King to name me, along with his son and himself...it would be a blow to Viserys, even as they're just stones. It...it means he has little faith in Viserys' ability to do the family honor.”

“That is how you see it?” Robb asked her. After a long, thoughtful moment, Dany nodded. Of course she did, Viserys was a man, and...but her young husband was smirking, shaking his head, moving toward her. “I see it as, above all others in the family...his daughters, his brother, he saw somethin' in the Prince, and in -you-, love.” 

“I....I hadn't thought of that,” Daenerys whispered, looking away. Robb took her face in his hands, as his pup wound his way around her ankles. She met his eyes, then, bright as only a young lad's could be, all full of her.

“Maybe it's time y'stopped worryin' about Viserys, and began realizin' how bright and good folk think -you- are?” She didn't have a response for that, though she met his kiss with a fervor. It was an impossible notion, to not look out for Viserys and his feelings, to put hers first. He'd been the only person Dany had consistently had back in King's Landing, but...perhaps...perhaps her husband and her King were right...

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